The Other Woman!! 💗[27-11-23]
The Fool & The Drunkard - confessional - self reflection🤍
If you like your newsletters without politics or preconceptions or seeking a break from the norm you may have just found your new hangout.x
27 November 2023
BELOW IS A RECORDING OF MY DISCLAIMERS / AN APOLOGY FOR ALL MY COMPLAINING & FOR BORING YOU ALL xx
Dear Chasers💗
I know people, whose life force seems to be, based on aggression, arguing and anger. They think everything's an argument in life. In conversation it's a matter of them to decide right away whether they are wrong or he is right. There is no in between. When asking confrontational questions they are as subtle as a chimpanzee throwing shit at a fucking wall. I am blown away by the level of emotion this person throws into being on his team of one. Screaming out at anyone trying to have a regular conversation where they’re both on the same side. No matter what the topic it is always possible for this crank to turn the tables back around. It doesn’t mean anything in my world to be agreeable.
I can get into a fight for simply not saying the correct words in an acceptable sequence and when I am fully showing that I am totally understanding of his plight, that statement that they have been striving to set down in stone the whole time, the same commitment to this point it has catapulted us forward into this ‘When in Rome’ territory where, I will vane acceptance to end the discussion on a sound note, they reject their previous vote for self and play devil’s advocate on everything they’ve been preaching prior to now. All I can do is pick up my dropped jaw from the floor and look them directly in the eye - gone out - lights on in an empty home.
Flabbergasted! This is draining me to death. They kindly stroke my arm while I am trying to type with said arm required to be involved. I know the drill. I stop typing, turn towards them, smile as genuinely as I wish I could be, tell them how much I really love them and that I appreciate this beautiful act of intimacy and I smile again hoping to leave it there. Then they speak. “Are you only saying that to me because I am stroking your arm?” Well, I tread carefully.
I’ve somehow managed to pull my back out. I’m walking like a bent golf club. My arse feels like a heavy suet dumpling hanging off my back. I think I slept in a strange position. We’d argued last night in bed so I stuffed myself as far up to the wall as I could so our bodies didn’t touch. I know I’m immature! I’m suffering more for it this evening though because when I awoke this morning he was practically sitting on my face (his back was pressed up against it) and I had serenely slid down the bed, wedged between the fella and the fucking wallpaper. Not pretty. My flat fat back was arched beyond anything that I could wish for under more romantic sexual circumstances. Most of the time I try to attempt such curvature, I look like I’m tucking myself in like a chair under the dining table!! For love nor money I’d need to be drunk just to get myself out of this pickled position I am now in.
I am not a slender or even classed as a curvy type of woman. I am a beanpole that’s Christmas wrapped in copious amounts of extra fat padding. I take all credit for the wrapping quality. I’m lumpy and bumpy and the only thing tight about me is my take on food budgeting. So, to be straddling a freezing cold radiator, clamped down by a red hot man is a rather contradictory position to be in, emotionally speaking. I mean, I kind of liked it. I couldn’t decide whether the cold was too cold to keep sleeping because the heat coming from him was so comforting and gorgeous, I could have lay there twisted like that forever. Him sleeping soundly in front of me, my body rocking moves I’d couldn’t even achieve during my teens.
The tender moments of peace and fucking quiet I try to cherish as best I can. I sound like a right drip but he is currently sprawled out again on my hip this time on the sofa. Pissed out of his face again and I am Just Clinging On to the end of my tether with his incessant ramblings of a drunken man. I have to blame the drinking because it exacerbates his need to devour all the energy in the room. He is a mood hoover because, like the sun, I gravitate around him. I don’t even know if that makes much sense. This guy is an amazing human being but when he wants your attention he will get it with or without your consent!
That was last night. I blame myself for my lack of patience with him sometimes but I don’t think I’d be alone in being that way given the fact that I am in a sober condition and he was not. I think most people wouldn’t be able to vibe with someone on a different level of high or from another reality perspective.
I hate saying it but I’m talking about a person who is completely wasted on alcohol bouncing off a boring cunt (me) who has been drinking water for the last five hours because the same drunk person (him) had forbidden me to drink coffee past 18:00 hours. It was getting onto midnight by now and he was on his 18th can of lager. I’m pretty sure even if he had five cans total and I had coffee in my system too, I or anyone else would still be getting quite irritated at this point.
I went to the shop for the second ten pack and the guy in there said “oh you’re having a good time tonight!” I replied earnestly that this wasn’t mine and I would be in for an annoying night because my partner irritates me when he is drinking and I have not. I told the guy that it was nothing to do with my partner but I got easily irritated. That made me think about myself a little deeper. It made me realise this could really be a problem for me and about me. I just can’t imagine that I am alone!?
I just don’t mind being in his company. I love it. I might not be able to vibe with him very well (which is quite disappointing for me) . I feel like he is missing out if I am being so boring in tone. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy drinking. I do but he doesn’t trust me to get drunk with him. So, it’s really his choice to drink ‘alone’. I can’t handle the day after drinking. Not the headaches or hangovers but the emotional damage.
After ten years of trying to drink I have come to the conclusion that its not so bad staying sober. I am far from a fridge in the false reality department. I can’t handle my surroundings all the time either. I’ve always been into some form or escapism in my life, from my life, from myself. I still get that.
I’m just trying to make sure that I pay for my escapes with hard cash so I can make legit decisions when making those mistakes. In other words - don’t get cocaine on tic - hold the cash then decide how I wish to spend it. Nine times out of ten we decide on better things to help us feel momentary joy - that lasts longer than 12 hours - like buying a kitchen full of food or a device we will use for the next five years, or clothes we might wear for the next ten! I don’t know.
I packed away my laptop and everything work related and agreed to go to bed feeling like my whole day had been devoted to someone else’s needs (I know, I know I sound so selfish and mean) even in writing it comes across that I am the one who needs to take a chill pill. I need to figure it all out. I went to bed at 1:30 am and lay down with my partner. Who was himself attempting to wind down from his night of getting pissed (intoxicated) a word I try not to use so I don’t sound like I am too far up my own arse!
I’m far from it, as a matter of fact, I hoped he had enjoyed himself. He loves to store up loads of shit, bottle up everything that has annoyed him and save it for a lovely day when he is enjoying a ‘lovely’ drink and then that’s when he opens up the tardis of emotion based around bullshit and badness. He allows himself to let his hair down and enjoy his incessant bitching.
I just hoped he would sleep soundly having let off steam. I felt so sad for him now I knew that he was holding on to old bones of contention. He dragged most of them out from storage. It must have been driving him mad that five years ago I bought the wrong cheese and he hadn’t shouted at me! What a bitch I am, I am so lucky to have such a selfless caring man as he and all this time he has been carrying the weight of my mistakes on his shoulders. Poor soul.
I just hoped he would sleep now but he continued to talk about everything that was on his mind. I think his brain was on a ferris wheel, he liked to circle around each topic at least six times before the next. I drifted off into a reverie.
Still having him on my mind. I wondered whether another source of creative outlet might encourage him not to bottle this up. I wondered whether if he wrote all these words down would he pull it off as a novel in one night? I mused over the thoughts that he could certainly succeed in doing a sponsored 24-hour non-stop talk-a-thon for charity. He’d breeze through the Guinness world records. I pondered on him taking up podcasting. He is so much more skilled than I am.
What in the world is he wasting his time on me for? I jolted back to reality and caught round four of the conversation about my mother and how she lives with so much regret now that her partner has died, and who is she kidding that she has never argued like me and him do, and how ,we are heading for the same destination.
I lightly listened to the next installation on how we need to change our behaviours towards each other or one of us will be left mourning the dead and wishing we had not treated the other like that. Then back to my mother living with regret. I skipped listening for another slowed and reversed space of time. Lying in the dark in bed with the covers over my shoulder padded out to cover my exposed ear. Burying my other ear down into the pillow. I zoned out but could not sleep because, a) I wasn’t tired at all and all my ‘creative juices’ hadn’t been extracted the day and night before; and b) I couldn’t just switch off my hearing ability or stop the sound of him sometimes squawking on and on then other times thundering on and on with his mad repetitive monologues.
Finally, with no end in sight, I jumped up out of bed (hardly jumped, I sort of quickly crawled because my back was done in) but I moved faster than expected in the grand scheme of things. I hobbled to the other room and smoked a cigarette out of the window, which I could only keep slightly ajar not fully open, because he was still chanting on and on and on… like a demented train. I looked at the clock on my desk at 2:37 am. In a calm way, I interjected into the intense conversation he was seemingly having with himself, very quietly I said it's been an entire hour let's go to sleep.
I haven’t even mentioned that all this talking he does it at about 70 out of 100 in terms of volume. The entire neighbourhood is sleeping. The silence around the apartments is thick and obvious and there he is chanting about personal subjects and unravelling his life savings of disappointments at a level you’d communicate in at a nightclub or at times, a fucking football club stadium.
I have a problem with loud noises anyway, and my other major gripe in life is an urge to protect my own and our privacy. So, he kills two birds with one stone. That adds to my struggle with accepting this kind of behaviour as being ‘normal’ or as I say ‘common’. I always say just because something happens all the time does not make it normal, it makes it common. Normal is how things ought to be, not how things are in many places - that's common, and then there is to be ‘human’ which is what we all are just trying to be.
I had an unusual but not catastrophic upbringing where my parents were both teenagers, I wasn’t planned and I wasn’t unwanted - to start with. I guess my Mum kept me because she expected a boy and my Dad hung around to see the outcome too because he wanted to be a good ‘man’. I’ve always blamed my ginger hair and my gender for the reason nobody wanted me once I was born. What else could I have possibly done wrong? To not be loved. That’s what it boiled down to. I am telling you this again now (as I mention my life so many times in every post) because I am trying to explain how I live, feel, and act my life out in an unconventional way. I am pretty certain that I have cPTSD. I rarely believe that Schizophrenia is my true calling!
I think I was labelled with it as an umbrella diagnosis because back in the 90’s - early 2000's all doctors really had to go on for my symptoms. Also with the possible genetic adages of my Dad suffering the same illness. There’s no scientific evidence for or against schizophrenia being hereditary. I later discovered that hearing voices, delusional thinking and psychosis can happen in more than one mental illness. That said, I always get down on my own worth when dealing with his behaviour when he is drinking. I am perpetually confused as to whether my reactions (I don’t react at all if I have a handle on things) but my internal reaction to his behaviour, I struggle to understand if I am being rational, reasonable or just a horrible cunt. There I said it.
When I feel like I have failed or that I can’t cope I always, always respond to him with the Exit Plan - there’s the door mate, run for your fucking life because I am not worth sticking around for. I am broken. I can’t fix myself - you are highlighting my brokenness, it hurts me to see it, there you go, off you pop, fuck off and find yourself a real woman. To which he gets infuriated with me for quitting. I told him some pearl of wisdom that was also a revelation to myself when it left my lips.
“I AM A PERSON WHO IS TRYING TO HEAL AND ALL YOU ARE DOING IS REOPENING MY OLD WOUNDS ALL THE TIME. YOU NURSE ME BACK TO HEALTH THEN ENJOY PICKING AT THE SCABS - IT HURTS ME. THE REASON YOU DO IT IS BECAUSE YOU ARE AN OPEN WOUND YOURSELF.”
- quote by Chasey Delaney (in quotes because I over-excelled in my sensibility and impressed myself with this pure ‘isotonic’ insight..! ).
I woke up this morning remembering how fucking fortunate I am to have such a lovely, beautiful, caring, gorgeous man beside me. Waking me up with face kisses and cuddles, and back rubs and loving hands who knows exactly who I am and still loves me for it. I love you he says and I love him too. I love you Princess he says and I believe him too. That’s why I always blame that other woman in his life…. She fucked off for a wee while but came back sniffing around him recently and he is falling for her all over again. I hate her. I know her by her full name. Miss Stella Artois! The horrible slag of a drink, funnily enough when I say it out loud it sounds exactly like ‘Fellas Are Twats!” on that note.
Did I mention how I effing LOVE HIM SO MUCH. I’m GONNA BE… much more positive in future. HERE IS OUR EXIT SONG FOR THIS TIME: <3
Thank you for reading me this morning! BIG soft Warm HUGS Lots of Love ..xxx💗
